


and, like that, we shatter

by orphan_account



Series: shatter [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Bad Decisions, M/M, Possession, Post-Canon, Rape/Non-con Elements, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 23:44:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9408038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It should be his first clue. It isn’t. After all, he trusts Dipper, would trust him with his life, with the world. He has. And Bill is nothing but crumbling stone and faded dreams.Ford is tricked. Set several years after Bill’s defeat.





	

They are alone, and the house is very quiet. The only light is from the waning moon outside and the fridge, where Ford still stands. Dipper’s head is low, most of his face masked by the brim of his hat, but his shoulders are straight. “It’s not a joke,” Dipper says. He puts a hand on Ford’s, which still rests over the fridge door, and shuts it. Dipper is taller than he used to be, shot up as tall as Ford, and he has surprise on his side: He blocks Ford in against the fridge. Ford’s heart immediately begins to hammer. There are a hundred ways Ford could escape, at this point, but half of them are overkill and the other half are unnecessary – for now. “I’ve always wanted you.”

Ford swallows. “Have you been out at the sundown glade? I have reason to believe there’s – _Dipper._ ” Dipper’s hand is between Ford’s legs, unabashed, cupping the warm weight of Ford’s dick. Ford jerks hard, his elbows banging against the fridge. He lowers his voice and grabs Dipper’s shoulders. “What are you doing?” he asks, angling up onto his toes, but Dipper’s hand remains, his thumb rubbing along the line of his zipper, slowly. “I’m – you’re not thinking clearly.”

“I am,” Dipper says. He rests his mouth and nose in the crook of Ford’s neck, his breath warm and wet. “Ford, you’re so smart, and strong, and brave, and I’ve always wanted to be like you. Always. You’re my _hero._ ”

Ford’s resolve begins to melt at that; he eases down onto his heels again, heat blooming through him, pride and desire and an old, old need to be loved, to be _valued_. It should be his first clue. It isn’t. After all, he trusts Dipper, would trust him with his life, with the _world._ He has. And Bill is nothing but crumbling stone and faded dreams. Dipper is warm, and alive, and kissing his way up to Ford’s mouth.

“You’re my favorite thing in the universe,” Dipper murmurs, and kisses Ford.

There are many reasons Ford should put a stop to this: He is young, and he is family; almost all of the power between them rests on Ford’s end of the court. This is the wrong place to do it. Dipper has a tendency to get lost in romantic entanglements, and stop thinking clearly. It is very likely he is compromised right now, emotionally, though Ford isn’t sure why that might be.

Ford knows all of this, keenly.

Ford cups his face and kisses back. Dipper moans into his mouth and presses tight against him; Ford’s shoulder blades dig into the fridge. Dipper’s belt grinds against Ford’s cock, his hips already moving in shallow thrusts. He slings his arms around Ford’s neck and opens his mouth, begging without words for Ford’s tongue. Ford obliges with a shudder, tasting Dipper, surprised at how the slickness of Dipper’s spit on his mouth is making him ache.

Dipper pulls back just enough to speak, his voice rough and low. “You’re so _amazing,_ ” he says. The praise runs through Ford like wildfire. He cups the back of Dipper’s head and yanks him into another kiss, his other hand catching Dipper’s ass and pulling their hips flush together. “Ford,” Dipper gasps, “Ford, please.”

Ford can’t say no to Dipper. He pushes him back, half-carrying him, kissing his cheek, his jaw, nipping at his bottom lip. Just before they hit the table, he picks Dipper up; Dipper slings his legs around Ford’s waist with an excited noise that is almost childish. “You’re so strong!” he says, and yanks Ford’s face around for a deep kiss right as Ford drops him on the table.

Ford doesn’t know if it’s been so long that he is desperate for any touch or if Dipper is that quick, but every touch, every tug, every surge of Dipper’s hips against his is _intense._ Dipper keeps his ankles tight around Ford’s waist, even when Ford’s hands start to fumble for Dipper’s belt. His hands skate through Ford’s hair, down his neck; one of them slips under his sweater and scratches along his ribs and down his side, making Ford gasp.

Dipper’s body is taut and slender and _responsive,_ arching into every touch, shivering with each of his gasps. Ford wonders if he’s a virgin. Probably – not that he is that aware of Dipper’s private life, but his nephew is awkward and nervous and fumbles so often. That he is confident now tells Ford only that he trusts Ford as much as Ford trusts him, and is comfortable with him, even in this.

Dipper lets out a noise like a laugh when Ford finally works Dipper’s pants open and down; his hands tighten on Ford’s body, his nails scratching at Ford’s back. “Yes,” Dipper gasps, “more, feels so good, Ford, _more._ ”

Ford thumbs his own pants open and wraps his hand around them both. Dipper _moans,_ so loud that it echoes in the kitchen; Ford kisses him roughly to quiet him. He rocks his hips into Dipper, jerking them off with quick twists of his hand that is making Dipper whine and moan, little laughs echoing between them as they kiss.

“Dipper,” Ford says, “my brave boy.”

“ _Fuck!_ Yeah, tell me – tell me how much you love me. Have you always wanted this? Huh?”

Ford lays Dipper back on the table, kissing his throat. “Not always,” he says. “But – I’ve thought…” He trails off with a soft grunt. The rest, he can only show Dipper, kissing him deeply, stroking a hand through his hair. Pinning him with the weight of Ford’s body, the intensity of his desire.

Dipper comes with a muffled shout, scratching Ford so hard that he thinks it’ll bleed. It doesn’t take long for Ford to follow with a gasp; the sight of Dipper, flushed, undone, his lips spit-slick and bruised, is enough.

Ford slumps against Dipper, wrung-out. They’ll have to clean, but Ford will let himself have this for just another moment longer. Dipper’s hands slide up his back and bury in his hair, cradling his head. One of his fingers finds the edge of the metal plate and traces it. “I gotta say, Sixer, you’ve improved on your technique. That or this body is _super horny._ That was intense. Almost knocked me out!”

Ford freezes. His heart, his mind, his very soul freezes. Dipper gives Ford’s hair a little tug, forcing him to lift his head and look into his face. “What, did you really not figure it out on your own? I was really losing it towards the end there! Hi.” He presses a wet kiss to Ford’s mouth, and the sensation is so vile and violating that he almost vomits into it. Instead, he yanks back and straightens to his feet. Bill sits up on the table, resting his hands behind him, utterly relaxed. Dipper’s thighs and penis are still exposed; their come cools on his rumpled shirt. “How’s _that_ for a reunion?” he asks. “One outta ten. C'mon! I think I deserve at least a 7 for longevity.”

Ford doesn’t think. He lunges forward and seizes Dipper’s throat and _squeezes._ Bill doesn’t have the opportunity to start laughing, though his mouth splits wide, wide, delighted and utterly in control. Always in control. He doesn’t even struggle, his eyes rolling into the back of his head, his tongue lolling. When he passes out, Ford has to force himself to let go, the process mechanical: _Loosen your fingers. Take your hands away. Back away._

Ford goes to the knife drawer as Dipper’s body crumples to the kitchen floor. He tugs his pants up, yanks open the knife drawer, and grabs the first one he sees. When he turns to face Dipper again, he is trembling so hard he can’t contain it, so hard his teeth rattle in his skull. Dipper begins to cough, rolling on the floor and wheezing. As soon as he’s able to, Dipper scrambles to fix his pants; it’s only then that he pivots, half-sitting, to face Ford. “ _What the hell, Ford?_ ” he shouts, his voice hoarse. “What _was_ that?! You think – you think I _want_ – you think I’d talk like _that?_ ”

Ford is breaking; he is flying apart. A door opens somewhere in the house, and it is enough to spur him into action. He strides over to Dipper, bends down, and hauls him up by his shirt. Dipper yelps and tries to push away (“Don’t touch me!”), but Ford is still stronger than him, strong enough to shove him into the wall. He puts the knife against Dipper’s face, just under his eye, and reaches over to flick on the kitchen lights. Dipper’s eyes are wide with fear, and they are white, with round irises and pupils. His eyes will never look at Ford the same. Ford releases him just as Stan comes in.

Ford is relieved that Stan knows that it’s Ford he needs to grab and pull away, that it’s Ford he needs to hold back. Stan grabs Ford’s hand, then slides his grip down and takes the knife. “Alright, what the _hell_ is going on down here?”

“He’s back,” Ford says, watching Dipper scramble to right himself, to put distance between them, watching Dipper unravel. Knowing it is all on him. “Bill Cipher is back.”

“What? Stanford, for the love of – we’ve been over this. He’s _gone._ ”

 _You’re panicking,_ Ford thinks. _You need to count your breaths._ He’s not sure if the thought is directed at himself or at Dipper, who has squeezed himself against the cabinets and keeps tugging at his clothes, wiping reflexively at himself. Suddenly, Ford is aware that one of his emotions is anger. Anger is easy to hold. He latches onto it and lurches forward, but Stan’s grip on him keeps him from doing more than taking an aborted step. “What were you _thinking,_ striking another deal with Bill?”

“What was _I_ thinking? Are you serious?” Dipper sounds how Ford feels, past the point of breaking, wild and desperate and _furious._ “He’s dead! I was dreaming! I was barely even lucid! What’s _your excuse?_ Because I’m pretty sure you were awake!”

“Why’s everyone screaming?” Mabel says, stepping into the kitchen. Soos is close behind her, Stan’s old fez still on his head at a cant. “Whoa, Grunkle Stan, are we stabbing people?”

“Mabel!” Dipper fumbles along the counter, away from the doorway; his hands close his jacket, trembling.

Ford wonders, distantly, if they can all smell sex. Ford still can. It’s overpowering, so strong it’s making him dizzy.

“Okay, somebody is gonna start explaining, _now._ ” Stan’s hand tightens on Ford’s shoulder until it hurts. The pain gives Ford another point to focus on. He turns and swings, shoving Stan off him. Just as quickly as his anger swelled in him, however, it’s gone, leaving him hollow and shaky. Ford’s flight or fight has turned on its heel and Ford follows the impulse, turning and striding towards the door.

“Don’t leave!” Dipper says, cutting through the noise.

It’s the only thing that might’ve reached him. Ford stops. He can’t leave Dipper to explain this on his own. He has to do damage control. He has to be the adult, here. He takes a slow, steadying breath, and turns around. “Soos,” he says, “Mabel, please go upstairs. Just for a few minutes.” He’s still shaking so hard that the words come out strange.

“What?” Mabel says. “No! No way, what’s going on? Dipper…”

“Now,” Ford snaps. Soos yelps and hurries back out, but Mabel lingers, watching Dipper with growing alarm.

“Just – just listen to him,” Dipper says. “We’ll talk in a minute.”

Mabel worries at her hair, then slowly scans the room. Finally, she sighs and turns around. “Fine,” she says, “but it’d _better_  just be a minute.”

The three of them wait in tense silence as her footsteps fade. Ford checks the hallway to make sure they’re alone, then turns – and is immediately beamed in the face by Stan. Ford staggers back with a groan. Before he can recover, Stan’s grabbed him by his shirt and yanked him around. “ _What did you do to him?_ ” he snarls. He looks betrayed, more hurt and confused than angry. It makes Ford want to disappear.

“Please,” Ford says, resting his hands on Stan’s wrists, “let me explain.”

“It was him,” Dipper says. He slides down the cabinets until he’s a tight knot of limbs on the floor. He lowers his head and tugs his hair over his forehead. “It was Bill. It really was, Grunkle Stan.”

Ford watches Dipper. It’s easier than focusing on Stan. “He tricked me,” he says. “He tricked me, and I…” There’s no good way to say it. He swallows. “Copulated with him.”

“…what?” Stan says. Dipper makes a soft retching sound; it wrenches the brutal truth out of Ford.

“I fucked him,” Ford snaps. “Alright?”

Stan punches him so hard that he blinks out.

*

Ford comes to with the taste of blood in his mouth and a ringing in his ears. He can hear shouting. He wishes it would stop.

“…doesn’t mean you should’ve _knocked him out!_ This is bad! Really bad!”

“Would you worry about _yourself?”_

“Great Uncle Ford!”

Ford squints; it’s too bright. Someone’s hand is on his chest, heavy; the figures above him begin to coalesce into people. Dipper is kneeling by him, and Stan paces behind Dipper, flexing his arms, clenching and unclenching his fists. Ford isn’t sure what’s happening. He has a concussion, he thinks. He deserves it, but he can’t remember why.

“Are you okay?” Dipper asks, leaning forward. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

It’s not about the fingers so much as whether or not Ford is seeing double, he knows, and as such doesn’t feel particularly obligated to answer. He sits up, slowly, and touches the back of his head. The room spins.

“Get away from him, Dipper,” Stan snaps.

Ah. That’s right. It comes back to Ford in sickly waves: Dipper’s shirt hitched over his stomach, Dipper’s legs tight around his waist. Dipper making a retching sound. Dipper recoiling. Ford turns his head away and vomits on the floor.

“Shit,” Stan says, and goes to kneel by Ford, a hand on his back. “Easy, easy. God damn it, Ford. God damn it.”

Mabel’s voice filters into the room from the stairs: “I hear more yelling! And it’s been longer than a minute!”

“Not now, Mabel!” Dipper shouts back. “Just – another minute, okay?” He stands and starts to pace, putting distance between him and Ford again. Good, Ford thinks. Good. Dipper shudders and scratches at his neck. “Fuck!”

“Dipper,” Stan says, one hand still on Ford’s back, “look at me.”

Dipper does, his shoulders high, head low.

Stan pats Ford’s back and stands, taking a few steps toward Dipper. “Here’s what you’re gonna do. First things first, turn your shirt inside out. Then go to the bathroom, take a piss or stand there for a minute if you don’t have to. Flush the toilet, and take a second to wash your face and your hands. Don’t try and clean your shirt – you can change it later. You tell Mabel that Bill possessed you and Ford had a violent reaction to it. It scared the hell out of you. You never really got over that time he possessed you, ‘cause you never had to. Okay? You can tell her the truth when you’re ready, but first you just turn your shirt inside out.” He gestures, mimicking the motion. “You do that and the rest will be a lot easier.”

“But I…she’ll notice.”

“She won’t,” he says. “She’ll be thinking about Bill. Keep her thinking about that. Tell her all about the first time he possessed you, if you need to. Doesn’t matter if you already have. Just keep talking around it. Ford scared the shit out of you ‘cause you scared the shit out of him, right?”

Dipper hesitates, then nods. “Turn my shirt inside out,” he repeats.

Stan nods. “And wash your face. Go ahead. We can talk more in the morning, alright?”

Dipper shifts his weight from foot to foot. “What about Ford…?”

“He’s awake, ain’t he? He’ll be fine. Let me worry about him and Soos and Abuelita. You just go wash your face and talk to your sister, now. Okay, kid?”

Dipper takes a steadying breath. “Okay,” he says. He hesitates another moment longer, then turns and hurries out of the kitchen, leaving them alone.

Ford keeps his head down, staring dully at his vomit. “Are you going to hit me again?” he asks.

Stan doesn’t answer right away, pacing. He makes several frustrated noises, _almost_ speaking. Ford isn’t sure why he’s censoring himself. Finally, Stan goes over and takes a knee. “Can you get up?” he asks.

“Probably,” Ford says. “It’s a concussion, not a broken leg.”

“Alright, smartass, then stop sitting on the ground like a beat dog and go sit at the table. I’m gonna clean this mess up.”

There’s nothing for Ford to do but obey, standing on shaky feet. He sits at the table and puts his head in his hands, so he won’t have to watch as Stan sets to work cleaning up Ford’s mess. He hates that Stan does it silently, without even his token grumbling; Stan’s silence is more damning than anything he could say. Ford thinks he might vomit again, and thinking about it makes the urge stronger; he finally staggers to the sink and upends the rest of it, which is mostly bile.

Once he’s caught his breath, he says, “Are you going to hit me again?”

“Just shut up and sit down,” Stan says.

Ford does. He hunches forward again, and presses his thumbs into his eyes, trying not to think about Dipper’s flushed body on the table, just to the right of where Ford is now, trying not to think of the frantic way Dipper shut his jacket when Mabel and Soos came in. “I didn’t know,” he says.

“Bullshit,” Stan says. He slaps his hand on the counter; Ford twitches. “Bull _shit,_ Stanford.”

“I didn’t,” he says. “I thought…” He expects Stan to interrupt, but Stan doesn’t; Ford doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. The ugly truth of it spools between them in his silence: He thought Dipper wanted him. He thought being wanted by Dipper was more important than doing what was right for Dipper. He _hadn’t_ thought, at all, had only acted.

“Get out,” Stan says. His voice is shaking; he can barely get the words out. “Get the fuck out.”

It’s not his house, not even Ford’s house, anymore. Stan has no power to make Ford do anything.

Ford stands, and goes to the door, and walks, and walks.


End file.
